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Writers can get inspiration (and a whole lot of work done) at residencies or artist colonies.

A friend and I have talked recently about applying to writer residencies this year for next summer. Some of them are free of charge and require a minimum two-week stay with maximums of five weeks or more. Some cost money but offer scholarship and work-study opportunities.

After attending a writers’ conference and realizing that much of it is focused on publishing and getting an agent or editor, I decided that what I really need to do is get away and write, free of distractions and responsibilities.

My friend and I have begun doing some preliminary research, and have made a list of some of the more well-known ones. Many of the ones on our list are the most competitive, with 10% acceptance rates (slightly lower or higher, depending on genre). For fiction, many of them want anywhere from 15 to 25 pages of fiction, the equivalent of one short story or a novel excerpt. I’ve been working on one particular short story that I think has promise and hope to send out both for publication and as my writing sample for these residencies.

My goal at a residency or artist colony would be to work on my short story collection. At this point, I have only written two stories that would work as part of the same collection, and need about eight more.

It seems that I got things backward this year; if I were to give advice to writers deciding between attending a conference or a residency, I’d recommend the residency first and then the conference. It makes sense to go to a conference with a finished work, or at least the first draft of one.

As a reader, I love to delve into stories that have electricity, ones that command my attention and interest in the first couple of paragraphs. This doesn’t mean that I won’t give a promising story a chance if it starts off slow (quiet stories can be wonderful in their own ways), but what I do mean is that my favorite stories, the ones that stay with me, have a vibrancy that is arresting, an energy that makes me feel like I’ve taken a few shots of espresso followed by a few shots of tequila.

One story that falls into this category, and which I highly recommend, is “Refresh, Refresh” by Benjamin Percy. The Paris Review blog recently made this story available again on their website, and if you haven’t read this story, I urge you to take the opportunity to read it now. Even if you have read it, it’s well worth re-reading if only to ask yourself How the hell does he do that? and then spend the rest of the day trying to figure that out.

If this post hasn’t convinced you yet, I provide you with the third paragraph for your reading pleasure:

We began fighting after Seth Johnson—a no-neck linebacker with teeth like corn kernels and hands like T-bone steaks—beat Gordon until his face swelled and split open and purpled around the edges. Eventually he healed, the rough husks of scabs peeling away to reveal a different face than the one I remembered—older, squarer, fiercer, his left eyebrow separated by a gummy white scar. It was his idea that we should fight each other. He wanted to be ready. He wanted to hurt those who hurt him. And if he went down, he would go down swinging as he was sure his father would. This is what we all wanted: to please our fathers, to make them proud, even though they had left us.

Feel free to share your own thoughts about this story in the comments, or suggests others that you think fit in this category of “electric writing”.

I’ve been thinking about John Cheever quite a bit lately, particularly after reading this New Yorker article about Cheever’s unique and artful language choices. Shortly after, I started seeing his name everywhere: in articles and interviews, even in conversations. It seemed like everyone was thinking about Cheever.

I talked with a friend about this recently, and she asked me if I’d read much Cheever. I thought about it and I know that I definitely have, although the only story I could remember reading for sure was “The Swimmer”. My friend told me she ordered his collected stories, and it sounded like a good idea so I ordered a copy for myself.

In the (mercifully) brief preface, Cheever wrote:

Any precise documentation of one’s immaturity is embarrassing, and this I find from time to time in the stories, but this embarrassment is redeemed for me by the memories the stories hold for me of the women and men I have loved and the rooms and corridors and beaches where the stories were written. My favorite stories are those that were written in less than a week and that were often composed aloud.

What I like about this passage is that Cheever acknowledges that his earlier stories were not as strong as his later ones, but nonetheless, they’re important to him and serve as memories of his past. I’ve read about authors who admit to being embarrassed by their early works, but I think it’s helpful to be able to see a writer’s development over time, especially a writer as revered as Cheever.

So far, I’ve read four of his early stories in this collection, and it’s fascinating to be able to recognize how flawed they are, and yet, how impressive, particularly the language. Even stories that felt contrived, or lopsided in some way were still pleasurable to read because of the language.

Artful, precise language, strong metaphors and analogies are all important components in a sophisticated story. Those aspects are what elevate a piece of fiction to an art form, to Literature with a capital “L”. I was given this lesson recently while at Squaw, when an agent workshopped my story and called me out for instances of “lazy writing”. I’ll write more about what I learned from that particular experience in a future post, but it’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.

In the meantime, I’ll learn all that I can from reading one of the masters of the short story form, and fellow New Englander, John Cheev[ah].

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